


Some or All

by razboinicul_iernii



Series: Infinity Gem Stories [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 1940s, I felt like depressing myself, Infinity Gems, POV Second Person, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-War Bucky Barnes, Really awful time travel, Suicide, Temporary Character Death, Time Gem (Marvel), Time Travel, Wartime Bucky Barnes, come along for the ride, make what you want of the relationships, sort of fatalistic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-08 00:12:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6831031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/razboinicul_iernii/pseuds/razboinicul_iernii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know what you want to do with the gem before Tony and Bruce have even finished explaining what it's probably capable of. You suspect Natasha knows too because her eyes flick to you when Tony says the gem might let a person change anything, past, present, future. And you don't even suspect with Wanda because you know that she can hear what's in your head even if she's trying to learn to respect those boundaries. You can't exactly fault her because your thought, your idea, it's probably screaming in her head the way it's screaming in yours. Sam talks to you after the debriefing and you have an inkling that he's been put up to it by Nat. He's trying to feel you out, trying to see if she's right, trying to get the information without asking outright. But once he mentions Riley, you know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some or All

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the characters listed besides Steve only show up in minor capacities so if you are here for them specifically, this may not be the best story to read. I am not the sort of person who has the time and will available to me to meticulously plot out the time travel(props to you who can!). I tried and confused myself quickly so maybe this is the type of story where you should take that element at face value and not think on it too much. :)) Just cry with me because Civil War has ruined us all. :)) My God :)))) I hope this isn't foolish.

You know what you want to do with the gem before Tony and Bruce have even finished explaining what it's probably capable of. You suspect Natasha knows too because her eyes flick to you when Tony says the gem can let a person change anything, past, present, future. And you don't even _suspect_ with Wanda because you know that she can hear what's in your head even if she's trying to learn to respect those boundaries. You can't exactly fault her because your thought, your idea, it's probably screaming in her head the way it's screaming in yours. Sam talks to you after the debriefing and you have an inkling that he's been put up to it by Nat. He's trying to feel you out, trying to see if she's right, trying to get the information without asking outright. But once he mentions Riley, you know.

Vision spends a lot of time with the gem and why not? All it would take is the wrong pair of hands. The world could be blotted out of existence with a thought. Makes sense to try to prevent something like that. But you can't keep the ideas from forming, can't keep him out of your head falling, laughing, screaming, frozen, missing found dead alive nothing then suddenly everything because he's _here_ but he isn't.

You know you can change all of it for one person and you think it's wrong if the universe doesn't agree with you on whether or not he deserves it.

Sam sticks to you like glue anymore. Nat tries to offer distractions. Wanda avoids you because if you're in the same room, she can't keep her expression calm, even, free from pain. Vision occasionally regards you like a child that he pities and it just makes the idea pound at your brain with that much more ferocity because you aren't helpless like a child. The tool you need is within reach. Protected, but present. Tony and Bruce study it and they think you miss their whispered conversation. Bruce was always more sympathetic to Bucky's plight because he knows what it's like to be turned into a murderous animal against your will. He says to Tony in a hushed voice, "Would it really be the worst thing someone's ever done with this kind of power?"

And Tony says, "No way of knowing. But some risks aren't worth the knowing." You want to know how Tony can say something like that. The man who risked the world by building a machine strong enough to destroy it. All he had was the hope that it wouldn't, just like all you have is the hope that you can give someone their life back. But you never say anything. If you let them know that you know what they know, things will only be harder.

The gem has been present in the facility for eight days when you take it. The last thing you see of the present-their present, not your present-is Vision and his eyes are a warning and a plea all at once as he reaches out for you. But then he's gone. Or you are. You aren't sure which.

The facility isn't here. It's just an empty field now. The air smells just a little different and you know it worked. You know you're in the past. The hard part is over because none of them can stop you now.

You can't hitch a ride because everyone who passes you sees your strange clothes and keeps driving. You don't blame them. You're in no rush because you have all the time you need. You smile and you feel light as a feather because you have hope, real hope. You don't tire out even though the walk is long and you think even if you'd never had the serum it'd be that way. The signs for the city steadily count down the miles to home and when the buildings finally come into view you briefly wonder if you're really ready for this. But you have hope.

People stare at you. You smile back politely because nothing can dampen your spirit now. The more things you see, the more at home you feel. Familiar storefronts, smells, clerks and businessmen you passed on the street everyday. The noises and the chatter and the language, it's all just like you remember and for a moment it almost overwhelms you, the perfection of it all. And then you see him.

He's real. He's clutching the draft notice he lied to you about, the one you found stuffed under his mattress where you thought a dollar or two might be because he always hid money there just in case and you were sure he'd be okay with you borrowing it as long as you paid him back and you had gripped it too tightly in your new, strong hands and your throat had felt tight and why had he lied? Why had he pretended he was so fine with going off to fight when you knew it was the last thing he wanted to do? You think you know the answer and you want to grab him right now and tell him you'd never in your life think he was a coward for not wanting to kill people, no matter what.

But he'd tell you that you were wrong. That he wasn't afraid of killing people. He was afraid it was the only thing he was ever good at. You don't want to entertain the thought and it won't leave you alone. Because Dr. Erskine said the serum amplifies what's inside and when you got it you became a great defender, just like you'd always wanted and when Bucky got it he became the greatest killer the world ever knew.

Your jaw clenches and you ground yourself in the present, you just watch him as he walks down the sidewalk, eyes- _not the dead gaze of a drone, not the wild look of a desperately confused victim of unspeakable horrors-_ alive with emotion, he's chewing at the inside of his cheek from the worry and he is not a murderer, he is not a monster, he's Bucky. He knows the fight is a worthy cause and the fights he gets in always are because he respects worthy causes and it makes you sick suddenly to think of Pierce and the lies he'll tell your friend about the worthiest cause of all.

He still doesn't want to fight. But the world will make him, over and over and

"Bucky," you say and you didn't expect it to sound so sad.

He looks up, a little confused at first because he knows your voice but why would he be hearing it right now and the confusion turns to shock when he lays eyes on you and he's so expressive and _right_ and he says, "What the hell, Steve?"

You don't answer because you're too overcome with it, he's just the way you remember and now you're the one who's different and you clear the distance between the two of you in a few long strides. You pull him to you, maybe too tight because he makes a little noise and you don't want to let go for a minute. You know people are staring but you don't care because you found him, the real him, the way he's supposed to be and you can keep it that way.

"Steve come on-" Bucky says, wriggling a little and you know he's a little embarrassed so you let him go. You let him go but not too far. "What's going on? Why do you-How are you so-" He waves his hand and the draft notice is forgotten for a moment, too absorbed by the shock of your change to remember he was supposed to be hiding this from you. "That is _you,_ isn't it?"

You nod fiercely and try to keep your smile under control. "It's the longest, weirdest story you'll ever hear," you say. "And you might not even believe me by the end of it. But listen." You snatch the draft letter out of his hand and you tear it to shreds like it's responsible for everything and maybe it is, or whoever signed it or sent it to him, but either way, it's just fibers in the wind now. "You can't go to war."

He freezes, staring at you. He seems to be testing a dozen different answers in his head before finally resigning himself to the fact that you know he was drafted. "I don't have a lot of choice in that."

"I can help you. You just have to listen, that's all."

"Steve, you know I can't just hide from this. You get put in jail for it. It'll follow you for the rest of your life, what a coward you were-"

You grab him again because of the sting in his voice and you pull him in tight because no one should ever call Bucky Barnes a coward after what he lived- _suffered-_ through. "Well you aren't. It doesn't matter what the rest of the world says, I know you aren't and you know you aren't. I can't let you go off to fight, Buck, simple as that."

And he looks you over and he says, "Yeah, you look like you could actually stop me, too. What happened?"

You take him for a drink because why not? You have the time. You tell him what you can because from what you heard it isn't wise to tell someone in the past too much about their own future. You just tell him bad things will happen if he goes to war and he sputters and says, "Really, and I thought I'd be having picnics with Nazis, glad you cleared that up for me." You finally get him to agree, tell him where to go and who to trust. Howard, Peggy, Doctor Erskine. You think about your old, sickly self and push Bucky to take you to the man who will change you for the better, who will finally make you strong enough to fight your own battles instead of dragging Bucky into them for you. Bucky seems to fluctuate between believing you and thinking he's gone insane, but you finally get him to promise he'll stay out of Europe while the war's going on.

When you leave, it's almost impossible to let him go but you know you've changed things. You did it for him and he'll be safe and that's what matters. You jump forward five years, just to be sure and he's dead. Shot protecting Erskine. Protecting _you_ even though you were supposed to be the strong one now and you fight with yourself to keep from shredding the newspaper right then and there. He'd taken you to Erskine like you'd asked. He'd been there in the lab with Peggy and Howard, insisted on making sure they didn't do you wrong. And you'd forgotten this part, of course, the risk. The HYDRA agent who'd come to assassinate Erskine just ended up killing your best friend instead. And you made it possible.

So you go back. Go back to after you just told Bucky to dodge the draft and you tell him instead, go to war. It's the hardest thing you've ever had to do but you reassure him even though he still makes it plain he's confused as hell and you insist you'll come up with something then. That you'll meet him on the field and fix things there. He asks you what needs fixing so damn bad and you can't bring yourself to tell him. He's your best friend and you don't want to hurt him. But you don't want to lie, either.

You go to Italy. The tanks roll in and they vaporize soldiers and you think of those funny little fly killing machines in the future, the ones that go _zzzap_ when a bug rushes into them drunk on the light. You call out for Bucky, not Sergeant Barnes. You can keep him from being captured and tortured, at least. The rest, they can be saved, but Bucky comes first. Bucky always comes first.

You've drawn the tanks' fire, your shield smashing through the turrets and crumpling metal like paper. Some of the 107th stare, slack jawed, and you remember they have no idea who you are yet. They think you're just some USO sideshow. They think you only know how to dance and lift a motorcycle one-handed to the delight of children and wives of farmers in Indiana or Kansas or somewhere equally detached from the real horror and bloodshed of war. So when you twist a tank turret into a knot like a shoestring, what else can they do but stare? And then you hear someone screaming your name. Not in terror or fear or anything bad. They're just so far away they have no choice but to scream it.

And you see Bucky running for you, one hand on his helmet, the other clutching his rifle and there's a grin on his face. He doesn't ask why you're different because he's already seen you this way once in a bar and then fifteen minutes later on his walk home. He's exhilarated and people are looking to him for answers, for an order, for something but he doesn't care because he's too focused on you.

You meet and it must be like running into a brick wall for him but he doesn't seem to mind. He throws his arms around your shoulders and laughs, the high from the fight still running in his veins. But he's laughing, smiling, and it's perfect, the way it should always be. "Is this what you had to save us from?" he asks you.

You stare and force yourself to nod slowly. It is, in a way, isn't it? If he lost this battle, he'd be dragged back to Zola. And that's where it starts, the beginning of the end for Bucky and the beginning of the beginning for the asset. But this is just one step. There's still the train, the fall. He needs a new assignment. One away from you because you'll drag him into the maw of hell whether you want to or not.

When you all return to London for a brief reprieve, you have to be careful. You know more than current-you, and Peggy is entirely too perceptive and smart to miss something like that. So you ask her what she can do to move your friend from the front lines in Italy. She asks if he's been severely injured and you say, "Not yet." And she gives you an odd look and you think you've messed it all up so of course you keep talking. "It's war, Peg. It's only a matter of time. If I hadn't been there-"

"And how _did_ you get there, Steve?" she asks. "You weren't supposed to be in Italy for another week."

Your current self is back in America, eager to touch down in Italy and seize whatever slim chance there is of seeing Bucky again in your time there. "He's my friend. I wanted to see him." You weren't supposed to be in London with Peggy until after saving the 107th from captivity. Now they've never been captured and you briefly wonder how your current self will make it back to Peggy but you have to focus on one thing at a time. Your sure you'll figure something out.

Peggy nods slowly but doesn't accept the answer. "I don't know why you're trying to hide something from me," she said. "But I know stubborn when I see it and I don't suppose I'm going to get the answer out of you right now."

So you exhale and shake your head slowly. You hate to deny her anything but the choice came down to him or her and you have to keep pushing for him. Because maybe if everything is okay for him it'll all turn out okay for her too. "Please, Peggy. What can I do to get him away from the fight?"

Her eyes soften briefly. Even if she doesn't understand everything, she can clearly see how important he is to you, and she wants to help. Or maybe she wants you to see, you think numbly, that you are- _were-_ beginning to be that important to her. "I'll see what I can work out."

And you smile your thanks because you know she's perfectly capable of anything she sets her mind to.

But unfortunately, so is Bucky and when you skip forward to check on him, he is half dead on the battlefield he wasn't supposed to be on anymore. You can't go to Peggy or Howard or anyone because you're supposed to be on a plane heading to New York. So you scour the area alone and it takes you too long to find him. You almost regret that you did because the sight is too much. His eyes are vacant. You say his name and he doesn't respond, just stares at the sky. His hair is dirty and his skin sweat-slicked in spite of the cold and there is blood on him and more comes up every time he coughs. You beg for him to focus, to look at you but he doesn't or maybe he can't. Maybe that action alone is too much to bear.

Then he says, in a broken, empty voice all too similar to the soldier's, "You took the plane." His eyes don't focus on you but they're at least pointed in your direction now. You think his face is trying to make a confused expression but he can't quite manage it.

And you stare in horror because you did it again, you damned him again to pain and suffering and torment. He followed you back into the fight anyway because he knew you'd do something stupid and he was right. He just missed the train but that wasn't enough to save him.

You get him to his feet and he sways and sags against you. You make it a mile from the field of corpses before you are literally dragging him along because he's stopped taking steps of his own. You look down at him and his head hangs limply. You tilt his chin back and his eyes aren't closed, they're open, glassy as marbles, half-lidded and empty and dead. Your hand darts to his throat, fingers desperate for a pulse and for a second you think you've got it but it's just yours in the ends of your fingers, pounding against his skin like it can make his blood start moving again. "Bucky," you say desperately and you shake him. Maybe he'll wake up. Maybe. You say his name again but nothing happens and you let yourself drop into the snow and he falls like a discarded doll with you. You hold his face and shake him again and you _beg_ his name this time.

But you know he's dead and you know you're the reason why. Again.

You hold him to you, tight enough to crush bones, and you let out a howl into the filthy fabric of his shirt. You don't know how much time has passed when you stop screaming and shouting and cursing at everything but you know it doesn't exactly matter because you can fix this. You can fix it. You just haven't been thinking big enough. There are options, they were just ones you never wanted to face because they'll hurt.

You let him go to Azzano and you let his unit get captured. You let your current self save him and when the time is right, you convince him to let the army send him home. It's not cowardly to go back. He's been hurt, you tell him, bad, and he did his part. He did his best. You can see it in his eyes that he doesn't agree. But he nods anyway, because he'll listen to you, and they send him to America.

He had friends back home, of course, but it's not the same. Not after you've been to war and the weight of the realization took its toll on him. He wrote it in the letter they found with his body. He couldn't sleep, saw Zola every time he closed his eyes and there was no one there to tell him it was over. He watched his friends fight and become revered while he sat on the verge of tears in the dark every night, afraid of what was waiting for him. He couldn't get it all out of his brain by sheer force of will so he got out of by sheer force of propulsion and a bullet.

You let him stay with you in the war. Let him watch your six and save Europe with you. But on the day you're supposed to get on that train with him you tell him to leave. He thinks it's a joke. So you tell him you want him to stop fighting. That he's done enough. That you swear you'll be there soon, with him, that you won't leave him home on his own to suffer. He won't listen so you say you're sorry. You break his arm and leave him in the snow. He screams and the others come for him and he stares at current you, who is stricken with horror and confusion when Bucky tries to figure out why this all happened but current you has no way of answering. Bucky never sets foot on the train and you're sure you did it. This time, there's no way it can go wrong. He'll be too disabled by the injury to die at the siege on Red Skull's base.

He dies in the Arctic, looking for you in the ice with Howard. It cracked and he slipped under and drowned. Not even mercifully quick, like your wreck.

The headline mocks you and this time you do shred the paper and you pound your fists into the wall until the plaster cracks and your knuckles don't even have the decency to split open and bleed. So you wonder what you're missing and maybe you have to go forward from the war instead of back. You let him go to war, you let him get captured, you let him fall from the train and that's where you are. In the snow beside him as he stares, completely in shock and you grimace at his arm thrown away from his body but you focus. He's alive, even if he isn't whole, and that's what matters. He manages to say your name when you pick him up. You tell him to try to stay quiet, to focus on breathing. You're going to get him home.

You do this to yourself and him four times before screaming into the wilderness because every time you are too far from civilization no matter how fast you run and he dies from the cold and the blood loss.

You're getting desperate now but you won't let yourself give up yet. Forward can still work. He'll be hurt but you have to try. You let him fall. You let the Russians find him. You let them treat his wounds because they must, they have to or they have no chance at their asset. You break into their base to find him and the first thing they do is shoot him in the head. You try again, sneaking and quiet and he can't believe he's really seeing you, says he knew, _knew_ you'd come back for him and you feel warm and hysterical until you are both buried under snow during your escape. They blew up part of a mountain to stop you, and it came down like the coldest, hardest rain and you know he's going to survive because you survived it. You dig for days, claw at the snow til you can't feel your hands and they're bleeding and cracked and raw from the cold but he's here, he _has_ to be here, somewhere, you refuse to leave until you've found him. And then you do but he's not Bucky he's dinner for a pack of wolves and you scream at them and they snarl back and you can't you can't keep watching him die.

So you think bigger, frantically, and forward is a bust, forward is gruesome and hellish so you go back again. Much farther. To the day you met on a playground and a boy pushed you and you skinned your knee and you tried not to cry because you were six and that was too big to cry. The boy mocked you and called you a baby and a dark haired boy who had a little sister he loved very much and didn't take kindly to bullies as a result, he saw the altercation, stood up and-

You scoop yourself up and you walk away before the dark haired boy can even move. You tell yourself to watch out, that boy's the worst trouble you'll ever know and even though the words are simple enough for a child to get they tear at your throat like they've got claws as you force them out of your mouth. You ask yourself if you understand and you nod and you set yourself down and tell you to go back to your Ma. "Don't let me catch you ever talking to that Barnes kid. There'll be hell to pay, and I swear I mean it." And your child self looks petrified when you cling to your mother's leg. You take a moment to look at her, so kind and strong and you want to break down in front of her and beg her, ask her what to do to save Bucky, because she'll know. You know she'll know.

But you don't.

Somehow you make it through your childhood without him, or at least you suppose you do because you're still here when you skip ahead to the war. You make other friends, maybe. You don't really care because there's no way they're as important to you as he would've been but you can't be selfish. You can't keep him. The world's made that pretty plain by now.

You skip forward. He goes to war. Gets taken in Azzano. Captain America never comes to save the 107th because Captain America was never made and Bucky dies a prisoner on Zola's table, gutted like a fish. You can fix this. You go back, just a little, and you save the 107th and you tell the soldier you pulled off of Zola's table that he's served his country well. That he can go home. You know he won't believe you but you say it anyway and you have hope. You lead them all back to London and you tell the soldier-"Sergeant Barnes," he introduces himself-you tell him about a beautiful broad named Peggy, a real firecracker, smart as a whip. He asks why you're telling him about her and you say she deserves a fellow like you, a real hero. And he stares at you like you're an idiot because he was the one in a prison and you're the one who busted them all out single-handed.

The connection isn't there, at first. She sees him and thinks he's brave but he's too wrapped up in what happened to him to be as charming and suave as he used to be. For some reason or another they keep talking to each other and you skip forward and eventually, somehow, they did end up together and they have a family and they smile in their photos. So you think you've done it. You've finally done enough to save his life, to let him live and be happy, even if you'll never know each other, he's happy. He lives his life and has his home and love and work that never asks him to hurt or kill a soul and he dies at eighty-six, warm in bed and safe with his family. You try to be satisfied but there's an emptiness too and you stuff it down because he deserves happiness a lot more than he deserves a punishment like you. So you go home.

Only home's not there anymore. The world is fire and smoke and ash, and the creatures from New York, they scream through the sky like jets and you stare in horror and confusion and fury and about a thousand other things you don't even have a name for. You find New York and it's just cinders, the void to space still ripped into the sky. The Chitauri scour the city, crawl over it like maggots on a carcass and you sink to your knees. You never became Captain America because Bucky never dragged you to the Stark Expo but you couldn't have been this important to the fight. Couldn't have been this necessary. The evidence is in front of you, burning, and you don't imagine the rest of the world fairs much better.

You dig out your phone, but there's no signal. The satellites that make it work are probably blown away by now. You gave him the life and happiness he deserved and this is how it ends. Either he suffers, or the world suffers and you scream, beg, what do you have to do? What do you have to do to save him from torture and death and fear? What do you have to do so that he can be happy, and live his life? Why does it have to be him or everyone? Why aren't you allowed to save him?

You bury your face in your hands as you sob because you can't think of an answer. You can't think of how to fix it. It doesn't matter what you change, it's always for the worst. "I just wanted him to be happy," you tell the air like the world is waiting for you to explain. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I just wanted him to be okay."

A hand is on your shoulder and it's gentle and understanding but you still jerk back and turn sharply anyway. Vision is there, somehow, again with that look of pity in his eyes. "It's still possible," he says.

"How?" you ask, all other questions shoved to the corners of your mind while this one clambers to the front. "Tell me, please, I'll do anything." You take him by the arm and you realize how pathetic you are, you're practically groveling, but you don't _care._

"Go back to our time," he says. "And be there for him."

You stare through blurring vision because that answer is too simple and too complicated all at once. And the point was to prevent him from ever having to suffer to begin with. How could Bucky-the Bucky from your life-ever be happy again? "So I just let him fall? Let them turn him into the soldier?" You ask it like it's obvious the answer is stupid and awful but you don't care how petulant you sound.

Vision sits beside you in what might've once been grass but is now scorched earth. "You've scoured every inch of your past, looking for ways to change the future." You scoff because really you must not have tried everything possible. There's no way you can let yourself believe that Bucky is somehow fated to suffer or die, that his happiness can only come at the cost of the entire human race. "And it hasn't worked."

"I have to try harder," you insist because you've never backed down from anything.

Vision closes his eyes briefly. "You know the truth, Steve. There is no changing it. Not without dire repercussions."

You grit your teeth because it's one thing to suspect it and another to hear someone else vocalize it. "That's not fair. That's-" You were ready to scream, to get angry, to shout whatever came to mind but what's the point? What will your anger change about any of this? The universe doesn't give a damn what you think is fair, doesn't care about Bucky, doesn't care about anything, it just _is_ and you know you have to accept it but you don't want to. So instead you clench your fists for a second and your voice falls pathetically, barely a whimper. "Why?"

"I don't have an answer for that. I think you're beginning to realize that perhaps no one has an answer to that." A choked sob escapes you and you clamp your mouth shut because you're supposed to be a leader, a fighter, someone strong. You've never felt so helpless in your life. "But he is still here now and what do you think are the odds of that?" You mull it over, the improbability of it all that, out of all the men who fought and died in World War II, you both ended up here in the future. That you were both still alive and young. Different, but still here. "You haven't lost him, not all of him."

"He couldn't even remember his own _name._ "

"But he remembered yours."

You stare at your hands in your lap. At the glowing amber gem you'd clenched in your right fist. You wish it would've cracked and shattered when you first picked it up. Because before you took it, before you used it, there was at least that possibility, the idea that you could save him. Now you know for a fact that you can't, not without destroying everyone else.

Vision extends his hand and you look at it warily. If anyone will know how to clean up this mess you've made of history, it's him. You see him open his other hand and the stone has a twin and you suddenly know why Vision spent so much time with it when it first came to the facility. He hadn't been studying it. He was preparing for you to unmake the world in your effort to save someone you loved more than it. You sob again when you hand the stone back and there's no malice or anger or disappointment in his eyes. Just that pity. You're like a little kid to him, you know, and he won't fault you for not fully understanding what you've broken in your misguided attempt to fix things. "Go back home, Steve," Vision says.

You bite back the response that wants to come out first: _it isn't home if he isn't there._ You aren't ready to sit up straight and face the realization of what you really need to do to change things, not yet. But you will be and Vision seems to know that because he amends his statement, "Go back, and _make_ it your home."

When you open your eyes you're in the secure room the gem had been held in and you are alone. It isn't there now. Something must've alerted Tony that you were here, because he rushes in soon after and asks what you're doing here and his eyes flick to the container that should be holding that horrible rock and you wait for the admonishment to come. Instead there's a familiar hand on your shoulder and Vision says from beside you, "We were discussing the future. What we might like to make of it."

You nod because you don't think you have the strength for words right now. Even if you're supposed to be strong enough for anything.

"Hope you were thinking happy thoughts," Tony says, eyes on the gem like he has to remind himself it still exists and no one's taken it. You want to shout out your guilt, tell him every detail of your thievery that everyone saw coming from miles away. That the punishment was built into the crime so you don't need the lectures. Instead you leave the room and find your own and you sleep and maybe by some miracle or maybe by a favor of a friend, you don't dream about anything.

When you wake up the next day, Sam find you first thing and looks at you with a strange mix of sympathy, worry, and the smallest confusing dash of giddiness and he says, "Found him, Cap."

Hundreds of possible reactions struggle in your mind to be the one you let out. You think of your talk with Vision, and you think of your pointless fight to change Bucky's past, and you think of your Bucky and Pierce's soldier and everything you will have to pour into retrieving him from his own personal hell. You have to face that Bucky isn't Bucky anymore and nothing you can do can change that. But Vision's voice comes to mind, a comforting anchor in the maelstrom of you brain, _you haven't lost_ all _of him._ Loss is inevitable. Loss is a part of life everyone has to learn to accept. Some people lose more, some less, but the point was, everyone lost things. You look down at your hands again and you know it's up to you to decide just how much you're going to lose here. Some of Bucky, or all of him, because even if you can't change the past, you can still do something about the present.

So you nod to Sam and you finally decide to say, "Let's bring him home."


End file.
